


Just Another Boy

by octoberdrew (SilverStreaksofStardust)



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-10-13 00:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10502847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverStreaksofStardust/pseuds/octoberdrew
Summary: You think it's really easy, but it isn't. / What do you do if you know that you're dying inside?





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - Keep in mind that this is a Newsies modern day fanfic. May not make much sense. Like, it's really weird. Sight Jack/David if you squint.

People admire my stubbornness. Yeah, it's irritating to them as hell, but for a boy like me who could get beat up easily has the guts - well, maybe it's jus' funny seeing that. In truth, I didn't like being stubborn, mainly cos you get hit hard right back.

But I didn't want to look like some scared little boy - I was supposed to be tough; I shouldn't cry.

The more humiliated I get, I turn redder than a ketchup bottle. When I'm frustrated and in pain, I use my fists, like hurting somebody or somethin' could solve my problems. Last week, when my shoulder scraped against the doorway at math class, I cussed and slammed the door fully open, which gave a bang and swung back. Several kids looked scared, and the teacher was real angry. Maybe the damage had to come out of her budget or something, but in my opinion, the decor improved.

I laugh cos it seemed ridiculous - life never went my way, and watching as people care about their grades and stuff, it doesn't matter. Basically, being successful meant working hard your entire life, but with the prices jacking up, you'll have to be a millionaire to have the perfect retirement.

Sometimes I don't know if I could shut my mouth, like my dad tells me to. You see, I can't be quiet very long. My insistent to voice out words was because staying silent was a waste. During silent reading at my school, I open a book to act like I'm reading, but whisper to my friend, David, instead. Unfortunately, David is this huge book nerd who actually appreciates the education given plus twenty minutes of reading that you could do at home.

The school don't teach you real stuff for life, anyway, so I can't see why Davey will be serious. They don't teach ya how to survive life. Like what courses you should take (or even should) at college or university if you're stupid like me. But what I hate the most is if you aren't book smart or don't get a concept, teachers don't bother to help. If I try to ask for help, teachers think I'm just playing and they give me a review, which doesn't make any sense. They use big words, too, like they ate the dictionary and spewed them out. My parents still pay the school for me not understanding anything.

So to me, it's logic that I can skip out. I get to walk around town, light a fag, and damage my lungs. Fun times. David tries to level out my logic with his', saying I'm plenty smart and can bring my grades up if I continue to go to class, but I always get my way. Funny enough, he thinks he can change me. He sticks by with my antics, and once tried tutoring. That died down, though, when he realised there was nothing he could teach me. I knew how to do some things, but to write it on a page, much less read was harder.

Speaking is my forte. Always will be.

_ . . . _

Lately I felt dead inside. Like some waking zombie. My movements are mechanical, my voice comes out hollow. Last night, when I was talking to myself, my voice sounded croaky and raspy. I tried clearing my throat by coughing, but afraid to wake up my dad, I drank a glass of water instead.

In the morning, I couldn't speak that much. My voice couldn't raise above a whisper, and of course I panicked. After putting on my cleanest clothes, but the white t-shirt was kind of stained, I went to school. When I went to David in the first period, I gripped his shoulder while taking a seat beside him. He looked surprised that I actually came to class.

" _Help_ ," I mouthed.

Mr. Wiesel, the English teacher, was talking about the novel we were doing - some boring book, about guys getting marooned on an island. I called him 'Weasel' jus' to irritate him. It isn't my fault that his name resembles close to the mammal.

"What - are you okay?" David said.

I shook my head, trying not to get annoyed. " _Voice_ ," I said.

"What? I couldn't hear you." He leaned in, eyebrows raised in concern.

"Voice -"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Jacobs and Mr. Sullivan. Am I boring you?" The teacher asked calmly, but I knew he was trying to embarrass us. I dropped my hand.

"Not at all, Sir," David replied, which caused students to snicker at the formal tone. Since Davey was a good student, though, it was assumed it was not sarcasm.

"Now, as I was saying before, we see-symbolism-it is important that we do not mix up-many believe that the resolution was when -"

I was tempted to roll my eyes, but Weasel was eyeing me suspiciously.

David brushed his leg against mine, and I shuffled away. His ears turned kind of pink, and he dropped his head down, starting to scribble notes furiously.

"Can you please tell me what the colour white represents, Mr. Sullivan? After all, you did miss a couple of classes. I'm sure you'll want to catch up."

"Innocence," I muttered, but my voice wasn't heard. Some kid coughed behind me.

"I didn't quite catch that. Can you please speak louder?"

My voice strained, but it was adopted to a loud whisper.

"Innocence..."

"He said 'innocence'," David repeated.

"Hm, yes, in the movies that we see, good wears white and evil wears black. White can also symbolise purity, and cleanses the soul. The Monks believed -"

I stared at the surface of my desk, hoping the rest of the thirty minutes went by quickly.

 _What a waste of time_.

_ . . . _

So here I am now, secluded in my thoughts.

As I inhale the smoke and think about shitty things, I wanted it to be some sort of revelation moment. Instead, I got a flock of pigeons nearby, pecking at the damn garbage. One of them kind of looked at me, and I stared back.

Uninterested, it started to browse through a banana peel with its beak. As if it could find something good out of trash.

"Okay," I said. My voice was back, at least. Hoarse, but still good enough. I wished I got something, even orange juice, but instead I stared blankly into the horizon.

There's me: a boy who jus' looks like another teenager waitin' to get away.


End file.
